I can't help, I've got you memorized
by squarenine
Summary: He guesses that she's probably still stuck back at the 12th, since the guys aren't here either, and he refuses to acknowledge the fact that the party's been in full swing since seven. Merry Christmas!


**A/N: Merry Christmas, everyone! This is going out to a really close friend of mine with the penname of **WolvesChaseRabbits**. Thank you for being you. **

**I do not own Castle, and I apologize dearly if they're too OOC. Also, it's un-betaed, so I'm sorry if there are any glaring mistakes that I have missed!  
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><p>He scans the crowd of people surrounding him with wide eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse of her gorgeous hair and gorgeous face and – he looks downward, downcast, half-lidded when he thinks over her vague, "I'll be there if I can, Castle. Paperwork calls, you know how it is." Well damn, is she coming or not? He clutches the glass of wine tightly at the stem, swirling, pondering how much wine it would take to kill the downright <em>ugly <em>feeling that's been bubbling in his chest ever since the door first opened to reveal a guest that wasn't Kate Beckett.

His mother glares at him from the middle of the floor, amidst guests and family friends, makes an entirely obvious gesture for him to mingle. But he stays at the corner of his loft, staring out into New York's bright night, the white ice falling from the sky just to accompany his heavy thoughts, his heavy soul. He's only seen another sight with such beauty to match, and he guesses that she's probably still stuck back at the 12th, since the guys aren't here either, and he refuses to acknowledge the fact that the party's been in full swing since seven.

It's around nine-thirty, and he settles with moping while his daughter and mother entertain their guests. He's already shoved past Paula – whom he'd invited purely because he was being nice and professional – and made nice with his mother's friends.

Alcohol. He needs more wine, already about three glasses in. But he's always been able to hold his alcohol well anyway. He just wonders if she's as good as she'd claimed. One day, he'll hold her to that. One day, when they're closer and together and maybe a drink together would lead to something that actually already happened on a daily basis. Oh, _oh, _he can't wait at all. Can't wait to drink her under the table and take her while they're under it. _Goddamn it, Rick, _he mutters to himself. _Pull yourself together. _

There's a part of him that actually _shivers _as he fantasizes about putting his lips to hers, the slow burn of whiskey as it slides down his throat, the sweet and spice of her tongue as it dips past his lips to battle with his own, his hands grasping her hips so tightly that she has to gasp against him – he shakes his head as if to clear it, huffs under his breath as he slaps himself. He doesn't usually think like that in such an open environment with guests milling about and drinking the cheaper version of the whiskey he had in mind. But he does anyway, because self-control doesn't usually make itself known when Kate Beckett is involved.

He takes a quick swig of his wine, watching the snowflakes blanket the ground in layers, crunching as brave souls walk the streets in their woolen jackets. He's in a light silk shirt and pants, since the heater's been cranked all the way up, but he shivers when he watches as the street-walkers tug their jackets tighter around their frames, braving the icy sheets of wind and the bite of ice. Even still, it's an amazing sight to behold, and his heart softens just a little bit. The Christmas tree placed next to him glitters with ornaments while the multi-colored orbs light up against the darkening white outside.

"Oh, that's gorgeous," Alexis chimes from behind him, and he shoots her a grin as her arm wraps around his back, her head coming to rest on his shoulder as she shuffles into his frame. He wraps both arms around her, pressing his god-sentdaughter into him. He buries his face into her flaming hair, mutters an _I love you, daughter,_ into her fruity scented locks.

"I love you too, daddy," she whispers back, and he's brought back to their first Christmas without Meredith, how he cradled his beautiful two-year-old girl against him, pointing out each snowflake as it fell from the blackened sky, cooing into her ear, whispering a soft hush each time she cried out for her mother, each time she choked on a sob. Kissing her cheek each time he swiped angrily at his eyes.

He presses a kiss against her cheek now, holds her tighter against him. She's going off to college soon, and he can't imagine living without her after seventeen years of being by her side, holding her up and catching her as she fell. Alexis has been his world for so, so long, and he wants to migrate.

To Kate.

If she'll let him.

She just has to show up at his party first, andhe _really_ wants her to show up.

He brushes his cheek against his daughter's, then shoves her away playfully toward the group of friends she's invited – he ensures that they're supplied with enough non-alcoholic drinks to not go looking for the alcohol – they've set up camp near the projector screen and his Love Actually DVD is making itself known. He watches wistfully as Keira Knightley's character kisses her husband's best friend, and takes a significantly bigger gulp of wine. His mother's singing her heart out at the piano, and he hears his daughter giggle at something Paige says, and he hears nothing else, absolutely attuned to the voices and sounds and actions of the few people who mean the world to him.

That's the reason why his heart rate speeds up considerably when he hears _her. _Her voice, her laugh, her playful, off-work tone reaches his ears and his internal frequency goes wild. His head shoots up from studying his near-empty glass of wine, and begins to scan the crowd again. His brain supplies him with useful coordinates and clues. _She's close by. _His eyes dart to the door, but it doesn't open to reveal her. How did he miss her entrance? She's already in his loft. He scans faces and – _Why did I invite the entire state of New York? _

Then he hears another peal of laughter that's so deliciously _hers, _and he hears his mother's voice coming from the same direction. He spots Esposito and Lanie and Ryan and Jenny and then – Oh, there she is. God, she's beautiful. Then he realizes why she's late – the navy blue evening dress hangs loosely across her shoulders, snug around her waist, accentuating every curve and undulation of her body – and she looks positively _stunning. _She must've gone home to change because there's no way in hell she'd be caught in such attire at the Precinct. His jaw meets the floor, and he can't help but _stare _at the goddess placed before him, hair falling in bouncy curls around her shoulder blades.

Of course, as the drool dribbles slowly down his chin, she picks that exact moment to meet his eyes, a spark going off in her eyes as they grow narrow with a smile to punctuate her expression. He closes his mouth, almost subtly, and makes his way to her. She greets him with a shy smile and a familiar, "Hey, Castle."

"Good evening, Detective Beckett!" he greets, jovially, genuinely happy for the second time in the span of the evening – because absolutely nothing could beat the joy of spending a minute cuddling his daughter against him – and he takes in her beautiful appearance again, leaning in to whisper softly, "You look beautiful."

"Thanks," she says, the same soft, shy smile on her face, none of the usual hardness of Detective Beckett. Kate's in his home tonight, Kate's at his party. Christmas has softened her, especially in the cosiness of his loft. And oh, he wants to kiss that smile away. "You're looking quite dapper yourself, _Rick." _

Definitely not Detective Beckett tonight.

Damn, where did he hang that mistletoe again?

He gulps slightly at her sultry tone, clears his throat with a soft cough into his fist, then greets Esposito and Ryan with hearty claps on their shoulders, smiles at their significant others with an equally happy hello. Then he retakes his place by Beckett's side, chatting with the guys about video games. He's got them both the new Star Wars online role-playing game, plus a whole year's subscription, so he's delighted when the topic steers in the direction of _Star Wars: The Old Republic_.

He watches as Kate, Lanie and Jenny break away from the boys toward the table filled with his arsenal of alcohol, keeping his eyes on the detective as she saunters away. He's quite absorbed in the swaying of her hips, when a hand thumps the back of his head. Esposito shakes his head in amusement, Ryan chuckles, and then they're pushing him towards her insistently. He bumps into her from behind, turning around abruptly to glare at the two.

She whirls around in surprise, and he feels her breath hitch slightly as the movement causes her front to press against his. He can't breathe as the smell of cherries invades his senses; can't move, when he feels her hands snake up to his chest. She pushes him away gently, eyes twinkling as she does. Then she's moving closely to him, playful as ever, until her mouth is at his ear. He shivers as her lips brush against the lobe of his ear, the sensation setting his entire being on fire.

"Can I help you, _Rick_?" And he feels almost all the blood within his body rush south at that damned tone she's using on him, on his name because it's so _hot _when she says it like that and she's quite pressed up against him, his hands pausing in mid-air because he's not sure which part of her he can and cannot touch.

He can't even respond, only places his hands on her hips, draws her even closer and hisses into her ear. "I'm reserving you as my midnight kiss."

Her chuckle reverberates through him. "It's Christmas, not New Year's, Castle."

He's vaguely aware of crisp green paper shuffling from Esposito's hands to Ryan's, and then both men are dragged away by their girlfriends – fiancé, in Ryan's case – to dance in his spacious living room. "Not if there's mistletoe involved. That's the oldest Christmas tradition, Kate. You can't deny me that right."

Then he grabs her hand, holds it away from them, keeps his hand on her hip, and he moves them slowly away from the table with a few graceful twirls. They're standing closer, swaying in a waltz, and he watches with a grin as her eyes light up when she realizes what he's done.

"Smooth."

"I know, right?"

"Less smooth."

"Oh, hush. Just let me have this dance. I knew you were simply itching to have me hold you and spin you around in my arms."

"Uhuh."

He moves in closer, hoping he's not overstepping their imaginary, incredibly blurred line, wraps his arms around her so that she's cocooned in his arms. He feels her tense up, muscles tight and taut beneath him in a coil. Her arms move hesitantly to loop around his neck, their faces close together so that he feels her breath caress his cheek, but not – quite – touching.

"Thank you for coming," he whispers, feeling her relax to his touch, her eyes tilted downwards and her lips pressed thinly so he knows that she's fighting a smile.

"Well, you know, Castle. I couldn't let you spend Christmas _so very, very alone, _as you pleaded earlier this week, could I?"

He grins in response.

"Besides, I wanted to come."

With that, he twirls them into his study, which had remained closed for majority of the party. She gasps in surprise when he expertly dips her into his study chair, and he runs into his bedroom, returns with a wrapped box in his hands. "I wanted to give this to you now, since it's crowded outside, and the sight of a present might send the others into a jealous rage."

At her perfectly arched eyebrow, he continues with, "I couldn't wait!"

He pushes the box into her hands, eyes dancing, excitement rolling off him in waves. "This had better not be something expensive, Castle."

"No, not in the slightest," he reassures. "I made it myself."

She eyes him cautiously as she rips the paper with controlled eagerness – he just _knows _that she wants to rip it to shreds – eyes popping from their sockets when she takes in the extremely thick leather-bound book before her. The fresh scent of leather fills her nostrils as she strokes the cover, curious and slightly knowing of its contents. She turns the cover over gently, and on the first page is his dedication to her:

"To Kate Beckett, my biggest fan, partner and best friend. You are extraordinary," he reads, smiling at the warm, heart-stopping grin she sends his way. "And as often as I say it, the word has not lost its meaning. You are, truly, extraordinary."

"Thank you," she whispers, and he watches in delight as her cheeks turn just the lightest shade of red.

She flips to the next page and he hears her breath hitch, her breathing turning shallow as understanding dawns on her striking features. "Castle, this –"

"It's a compilation of my manuscripts. From my first novel up till _Heat Rises_. All of them have been scanned and printed and you have the only copy in the wor–"

Her lips are on his.

_Holy mother of – _her lips are soft and melding against his and he's just _so happy _right now and he can't really breathe or think other than to kiss her right back. _Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, _races through his brain and he bites back a groan as her tongue slides deliciously against his. She tastes like cherries too. He's in cherry-heaven.

No, he's in Beckett-heaven.

He's dreaming.

He's in a dream, isn't he?

Finally giving in to the inane need for air in his lungs, they pull apart with a resounding _pop _that suddenly makes the past minute extremely real. He can't quite tone down the grin as he beams at her, and he knows it gets a little creepy when he doesn't stop smiling, but _she kissed him, _and that means the world because _he didn't kiss her. _Beckett's not usually one to act first, and this, _this – _his grin spreads wider if it were possible.

And the best part of it all?

She's grinning at him too.

"Merry Christmas, Kate."


End file.
